


Hex Kinktober 2018

by Grimwatch



Category: overwatch
Genre: F/M, Kinktober 2018, M/M, Mild Gore, Multi, Other, Teratophilia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-08-02 08:02:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16301213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grimwatch/pseuds/Grimwatch
Summary: A compilation of Hex’s Kinktober 2018 fills.





	1. Day 1. Deep Throating | Akande x GN Reader

“You’re giving up too fast.”

The sweet musk fills your nose again, the smell of skin meticulously scrubbed clean, leaving behind only the essence of hot blooded male; the fat head of his cock pushing up against your lip. His eyes don’t betray impatience, calm as ever. The serene look he gives you might have actually worked to settle your nerves if you didn’t know about the storm that laid behind it.

_Do not fail._

Your jaw _aches_ \- held open far too wide for far too long, but you don’t want to get your teeth on him - not after last time.

“That’s it,” he rumbles, voice purring like a motor, a sound that reaches deep in his chest and amplifies in the small room. Your room. Always yours, never his. He’s saving that for once you’re broken in proper. A reward. A bigger cage. Your tongue lays flat as the thick length eases in, no space otherwise. He keeps pushing.

When you choke again, his thighs clamp around your head, and the fear sets in as you try, and fail, to pull away.

“The more you struggle, the more air you waste. Push through it.”

There isn’t any other option. Not with hard muscle pinning you in place.

He could probably kill you like this. The thought occurs to you as you try to quell the urge to panic. It does not help. It’s only when he squeezes tight enough to make your head hurt that you force yourself to continue. Your throat burns as he slowly feeds more into your mouth. You can feel every inch.

“There…” Satisfaction. It comes off him in waves; the croon in his voice, the way his eyes half close - the corded muscle easing off the sides of your head. He even takes the time to wipe the tears from your cheeks. “Just needed to break through that wall. That is how we grow stronger.”

The fingers in your hair tighten - and it’s like the last of your resistance crumbles as his cock slides into place, sheathing itself in your warmth, your nose pressed into the short, trimmed hairs at its base. You can breathe nothing but him - feel nothing else but the pulsing in your mouth, along your tongue, down your throat. He squeezes at it with his other hand and you can do nothing but gurgle as he laughs, the sound grinding his hips against your face.

“We will do this again.” When he _pulls_ , it drags along the insides of your throat, triggering another flurry of coughs, spit dripping from your mouth in threads. He gives you no time to recover, pushing back past your swollen lips, pleased at the way you go limp, glassy eyed, surrendering yourself to the feeling of fullness in your mouth.

“And next time,” he groans, and you can feel him throb in your tongue, warmth pooling down into your gut. “You will do it faster.”


	2. Day 2. Ass Worship | Genji x AMAB Reader

It’s strange - the contrast of warm skin and cold metal - pressed just over the curve of your ass long enough to make you squirm. He pinches your thigh in a reprimand, and you have to bite back the moan it prompts from you. No need to make him any more smug than he already is. Hard, when your cock is pinned, the head flushed where it peeks out underneath you, pressed against the mattress and glistening along the slit.

“If you move again, I’ll stop.”

There’s something pleasant about the tinny sound to his voice; the result of vocal cords fixed by medical ingenuity. You can still hear the amusement in his tone despite it, but you don’t underestimate the threat. A slow exhale, and you settle again, burying your face in the crook of an arm as hot breath ghosts your skin.

“Beautiful.”

There’s a joke somewhere about the cyborg and his silver tongue, but it’s lost in the way your thoughts scramble when he drags it over plush flesh, sticky and warm and wicked. Your toes curl as hands - the texture of smooth metal and woven carbon fibre intermixed to a cacophony of sensation - close over your ass and squeeze, spreading you open.

“I will never get tired of this.” It’s like he’s trying to etch the words into your skin with the way his mouth skims the surface; the scars on his lips gnarled and rough, but just another part of him that makes you shiver. “You were made perfect for me.”

The hiss of air when he vents the heat from his suit is what clues you in to his movement - that sleek body crawling over yours, the click of the plate at his groin followed by a heat sliding up between the crease of your cheeks. He doesn’t fuck you - not yet - just coos as he pushes the plump flesh of your ass around him.

“Hurry…” Your face is hot, sweat pooling in the dip of your back. His laugh wisps more warm breath over your shoulder, and your flush only grows deeper.

“I am just giving this the attention it deserves.” A pinch makes you yelp, and you squirm as he continues to pull and knead at your ass, rubbing himself against you all the while. “Are you embarrassed?”

Either answer will only egg him on, so you stay quiet, burying your face in the sheets, groaning when you hear the pop of a bottle cap, cold slick dripping down your crease and warming to the temperature of your skin. Still, he makes no move to give you what you’ve been aching for, your cock almost painfully hard, a wet patch on the mattress where you’ve rubbed against it with your squirming.

“Be patient.” Your whimpering is met with a light swat, and he grabs a handful and squeezes, spreading you open with purpose. “We have the whole night. I do not intend to waste it.”


	3. Day 3. Knifeplay | Hanzo x GN Reader

Sweat. Cold metal. The way the ropes bite into your flesh, chafing the delicate skin at your wrists. The flickering candle light casts shadows against the walls, bathing the room in a soft orange glow that gives your bare skin a certain warmth. It would be almost pretty - if it weren’t for the knife pressed flat against your belly, the threat of being gutted written in the way it flexes there each time you breathe.

“H-Hanzo.”

He likes it when you use his name, you’ve found in your time held captive. But now he does not even twitch. Every fibre of him is held in rapt contemplation; those dark eyes focused on your body, a storm in them, the dancing flame of the candles bringing out the sharp cut of his cheeks.

You try again.

“Hanzo-”

“I told you to be silent.”

He doesn’t even look up at you, but he doesn’t need to. The sharp reprimand in his voice is something you’ve been conditioned to flinch from. At this point the rope bound artfully round your arms is just there to keep you from squirming overmuch.

When he finally tears his eyes away from your skin, there’s a sense of purpose to them. The blade stops pressing against your belly, and you allow yourself deeper breaths, fingers uncurling from where they’d bunched into fists, the blood slowly returning to them as he disappears into the dark corner of the room.

“You will stay still, and be quiet.” The relief that flooded you is quickly quashed by the sound of metal on stone - the sharp scrape of an edge being ground to a fine point that you can already feel cutting into your body, panic flooding your system as your mind tries to decide between instinct and the rigorous training he’s run you through - a fight between the fear of the knife and the fear of what he’ll do if you disobey him.

He does not leave you wondering.

His silhouette melts back out of the darkness - the shadows stark on his sharp features; sharper than the knife he’s weighing in his hands. That critical look is back on his face, watching you for the telltale signs of resistance.

“If you move, the pattern will be ruined, and I will have to start again.” Bile rises in your throat. He puts a hand on your belly, feeling the way your muscles bunch under his fingers, that small smile on his face, like he’s got a secret that particularly pleases him. You’ve learned to dread that look.

“If you scream…” He lets it hang, the cool press of the knife to your collarbone enough to make you understand. There are worse things he could inflict upon you than this.

You try to remember that when he starts cutting.

The blade is sharp enough that you don’t even realise he’s cut you at first - not until the pain burns a line across your chest at the same time blood blooms in a thin red thread. You want to scream - but the sound lodges itself in your throat, a choked, broken thing, tears filling your eyes, spilling over, and dripping off your face.

He strokes a hand across your cheek, hushing you as you struggle through the pain. There’s something almost… proud in his eye. It does not stay his hand.

One after another- the knife flashes in time with his cuts, movements made with precision, the fire spreading across your chest, down over your belly, even the curve of your hip. The areas closest to bone hurt the most; at one point he shows you some mercy, cutting your arms free so you can sink your teeth into the palm of your hand, muffling the shaky, desperate sobs in your throat. When the trembling of your body becomes too violent to cut straight, he stops, wiping the blood from your skin, cleaning his canvas until it subsides enough for him to continue.

It’s over in what feels like hours, Hanzo lifting the knife for the last time to wipe it clean, the dragons winding down his arm flexing as he sets it aside. The look he gives you is… affectionate. Or as close as it can get, to a man like him.

“You did well.” He smooths the hair away from your face - damn with sweat from the effort of your restraint. Despite yourself, you whimper, turning into the gentle touch; a far cry from the agony you’ve been made to sit through. You don’t know how to read the glint in his eye.

Maybe this is what he’d been hoping for.

The smell of balm hits your nose, and when he smears it over your chest, the pain flares, before dulling to a low throb. Dry lips press against your temple, and you groan, shuddering as he continues to work the cream into the spiralling wounds.

“You will not bathe until the cuts close. I will have you cleaned with a damp cloth, and we will apply the balm in the morning and at night.” Hands tuck under your arms, pulling you into his lap. His cock presses hard against the small of your back. You don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Of course he would get off on this.

“You will rest.” He strokes the inside of your thigh in circles, like he’s soothing a wounded animal, and you wonder how you let it come to this. “You will heal.”

The only relief you find is that he doesn’t seem interested in making you satisfy him. You don’t think your body could bear it.

“And when you’re better.” His voice is low, the hoarseness a good sign of just how aroused he is by this - his hands splaying over the glistening surface of your skin, where blood is beginning to crust under the applied balm. “I will do the rest of you.”


	4. Day 4. Spit Roasting | Jack and Gabriel x GN Reader

There’s an ache in your bones that lies deep, the way only military life could manage. Even just as a handler, the exhaustion is becoming so ingrained that on days you aren’t worked to the bone, you find it impossible to sleep. What that means for you when this is all over is something you haven’t had the time to consider.

A shout rings out from somewhere down the hall. Then another. The sound of boots skidding over linoleum floors and a crash of something metal. You turn, eyes straining to keep themselves open as the gears in your brain slowly start back up.

_God damn it._

You know _what_ and _who_ it is before you even reach the doors to the communal kitchen. It’s confirmed when you heave through to the sound of flesh hitting flesh - hard - the snarls like a pair of dogs facing off.

“Alright, break it up!”

They jump apart like they’ve been hosed down - both breathing hard, 76 bleeding from his nose and 24 sporting a rough bruise over his cheek. It’s not the first time they’ve clashed since 24 was assigned to you; the only handler with _two_ responsibilities since 24’s died; a fucking fall that left her neck broken and you with two massive problems that didn’t seem to like each other very much. Strange, considering that they’d seemed to be friends, before everything.

“You want to tell me what it was this time?”

Silence. You can see their chests heaving, fists clenched with barely contained rage and you shiver at the look in their eyes. God only knows what would happen if you ever found yourself on the other side of that anger. A familiar throbbing begins to start at the front if your skull, right between the eyes, and you pinch your nose to try and stem it.

“You know, the day you two learn to stop fighting-” you begin, and then cut off with a sigh, shoulders sagging. “If you two don’t start working together I’m going to be reassigned.”

They finally stop glaring at one another - heads snapping like to attention, 76’s eyes wide like he’d never considered the possibility - 24’s narrowed. You’re surprised it concerns them at all, really, but maybe they like you more than they’ve let on.

“You can’t be reassigned. You’re my handler.” It’s said like a fact, 76 finally letting go of his clenched fists when he turns to you. The muscle in 24’s jaw visibly jumps.

“ _Mine_ too.”

Odd. The possessiveness there made your face scrunch. You’d probably have to inform the higher ups - even though they’d likely just tell you to use it as leverage for more control.

“I will be neither of yours if you keep this-“ you wave a hand at the wrecked kitchen, “-up.”

They look at each other - and the tension in the room spikes something fierce. Then, slow, like a flower blooming for the first time, something passes between them.

“We’ll stop-” 76 says, the same time 24 growls “We’ll work together.”

It seemed to surprise them both just as much as it did you. You’re so tired you can’t even manage a smile, despite the relief that floods you. The first steps towards reparations. You can put off worrying about civilian life for a little longer.

“Good, that’s…” a yawn, cavernous, and you smack your hand over your mouth, sheepish. “...good.”

You’re surprised again when they make no protest at your dismissal - when you turn to leave instead of lecture. Still, not as surprised as you are when the blow lands across the back of your head, the last thing you see, the ground rushing up to meet you.

 

——

 

“Careful-”

“Don’t fucking tell me what to do Jack-”

“Or what? You’ll kill _my_ handler too?”

“ _Ours_.”

The voices make your head throb, the groan you let out alerting them to your rousing. The hands on your hips squeeze harder. A spike of pain shoots through your head - and between your legs. The realisation makes your eyes snap open.

76 is curled over your body like a dog guarding its meal, your head in 24’s lap, something warm and stiff pressed against your cheek. Your legs are hiked into the blond’s lap, spread open over his hips - the stretch of him wide where he’s buried in you, fingers pressed hard enough to bruise over your waist.

The scream you let out is muffled by thick fingers pressing on your tongue, a warm palm smothering you as you buck and struggle.

“Fucking-”

You clamp down with your teeth, and immediately regret it, the fingers in your mouth hooking and yanking at your jaw hard enough to make you yelp. A thick arm lays itself over your throat, squeezing.

“ _Careful_.” That warning again, 76 snarling, his hips jostling up against yours hard enough to make you wheeze. You kick out, but the struggle is hardly enough to move him - especially with the breath being choked out of you.

“Hold _still_ , or I’m gonna knock you out again.” His voice is rough in your ear, the timbre of it rolling up your spine like gravel. Tears are starting to prick at your eyes, the pressure he’s forcing against your throat building. For a fleeting moment it feels like he’s going to wring your head right off your neck - and then as your limbs go limp, he lets go - and you’re reduced to a pathetic gasp for breath as he pulls his fingers out of your mouth, coughing and sputtering, choked sobs as your body quakes.

“Better?”

You don’t learn. The moment you get a deep enough breath, you shriek - but this time it’s 76 who strikes, the back of his hand across your face, hard enough to daze, and for the taste of metal to fill your mouth.

“Turn over. If you can’t keep your mouth shut, may as well use it.”

24 is talking to you, but it’s 76 who moves, pulling back his hips, wet dripping down your thighs with it. You’re rolled without any hesitation, the room spinning in a blur of colour, fingers curling into your hair and tugging - sending more pain lancing through your skull.

The scent of musk assaults your senses. Blunt flesh pushes up against where your lips are drawn tight, but a rough hand squeezes at your jaw until you cooperate. 76 pushes back into you at the same time as 24 slides his cock into your mouth, your sobs choked on the thick shaft that stretches your lips obscenely wide, the ache in your jaw only matched by the one between your thighs.

They both let out low, long groans, a sound that cages you, your charges working in tandem now, one sliding in as the other slides out, building into a smooth, steady rhythm that rocks you between them.

“You know,” 24 grunts, and you choke as he pulls your head down on his shaft, holding you there while you try, and fail, to get free. “You were right.”

76 gives a short, sharp thrust, and you feel his breath on your neck as he continues the line of thought.

“Much better when we stopped fighting.”


	5. Day 5. Feederism | Lúcio x GN Reader

In all honesty, he’s probably the best partner you could ask for. Caring. Sweet. He buys you whatever you want, cooks for you when he has the time, takes you on his tours, showed you the world and everything there was to see in it. It really would be the perfect relationship - if he hadn’t fucking kidnapped you to get it.

Even so - it’s hard to hate him. No matter how much you resisted him, he never hurt you. Just… used what he could to keep you with him.

Eventually you just… gave up. Figured it wasn’t too bad of a life, being spoiled by a man who took better care of you than you did yourself. If anything, he liked to remind you, that cheerful smile always on his face, you got lucky. He could have been a psychopath.

Your compliance granted you a little more freedom - though he was still careful about where you went and who you talked to. But he trusts you enough now to leave you at home without locking you in - and you’ve spent the afternoon lounging in the penthouse in pyjamas, flicking through the unlimited channels on the 4k tv.

There’s a click, a jingling of keys, and the familiar pulse of music through headphones.

“Meu amor!” You look up and smile, as is expected - and really, it’s hard not to when he’s beaming so brightly just from the sight of you. “I bought you food.”

He lifts the bags he’s carrying and you eye them, wondering just how much he’s expecting you to eat. You thank him anyway, pressing a kiss to his cheek, about as close as you’ve gotten to genuine affection with him - though he insists that’ll change with time.

“Put something on, we can watch.” He sets about unpacking the takeaway boxes, the smells of meat mixing with something sweet and sugary. Dinner and dessert, then. You settle back on the couch, curling up comfortable, picking out an old action flick you’d been meaning to watch.

“Here!” When you glance back at him again, he’s holding out a fritter of some kind. Jokingly, you open your mouth at him with a soft ‘aah’. The smile that splits across his face is unexpected - as is the tenderness with which he feeds you.

Warm, spiced meat fills your mouth, and you let out a pleased noise. It’s good, and at the taste, your stomach rumbles. When you reach for the box however, he stops you.

“Let me.”

There’s a softness to his eyes that makes you shift, uncomfortable - but you open your mouth when he extends his hand, taking another bite.

The movie plays in the background, forgotten, as he feeds you, only stopping to unbox more food; more fritters, rice cakes in gravy, fried noodles. He doesn’t stop even as you start to slow down, insists when you try to turn your head away.

“C’mon, just a little bit.” The cajoling tone his voice has taken on just makes you feel more ill, the smell of sugar made worse by the sticky swipe of icing against your lips. “One more. For me.”

You’re caught under those brown eyes, pleading, his lean body caging you against the couch while you struggle to keep it all down. He presses the cupcake against your mouth again, and you can see the way his breath catches. Slowly, you part your lips.

It takes you a long while to finish it, Lúcio cooing and soothing you through each bite, at one point resting a hand on your belly, rubbing gently. When you finally swallow, he’s whispering quiet praises in your ear, cleaning the icing off your lips with his thumb, warm against your side.

“You did so good…” He hushes you when you groan, hand stroking the side of your face. “I’m so proud of you.. You’re almost finished now.”

Your eyes snap open, and the look you give him must indicate your horror, because he starts speaking in that calming voice again - the one he used to use all the time in the beginning, like soothing an animal that's been backed into a corner.

“It’s okay.. Just a couple more left. I’ll help.” The scent of sugar fills your nose again, sickly sweet. “You’ll do it for me, won’t you?”


	6. Day 6. Daddy | McCree x GN Reader

Finding a date is always hard. Landing one that isn’t a complete asshole tends to be harder. The reality of the dating pool in your area is a sad one, even on the days you’re _actually_ looking for a one-night deal. It’s why you’re so wary when you walk into the place - a brow raising at the raucous noise that greets you.

Patrons laughing, drinking - some dancing in front of a small stage where an acoustic band turns out top 40s. It feels a bit more like a diner than a proper restaurant, but the smell of the food wafting through the air is enough to ease some of your reservations. Your eyes scan the mess of strange faces, trying to recognise a man you’ve only seen through a picture on a screen.

“Evenin’”

The voice is low rumble that makes you whip your head around, coming face-to-chest with the very person you’d been looking for. He tips his hat to you with a smile, and you’re struck by those warm eyes - honey brown, with the kind of welcome to them you’d expect from an old friend.

“Oh! Hey-” If he notices that you’re a little breathless, he doesn’t say anything, the corners of his eyes wrinkling in a grin.

“I got us a seat by the window. Just popped out for a smoke t’wait for ya.” He guides you to the small table with a hand on your back, high up enough to be respectful. “Hope y’dont mind, I went ahead an’ ordered us some starters.”

The quesadillas are still warm, and you’re hungry enough that you appreciate the gesture. He takes his hat off when you sit down, revealing a strong brow, hair that tangles wild around an equally roughshod beard. On anyone else it would have looked messy, but he pulls it off perfect.

“Got somethin’ on my face?”

Fuck. You were staring. The easy smirk suggests he knows exactly what kind of effect he has on people. A flush creeps up under your collar, a nervous laugh in your throat. Smooth.

Thankfully, it’s easier to start a conversation than it is to tear your eyes away from him, and you quickly find that his words are as disarming as his smile.

 

* * *

 

“Bullshit!”

He flashes you another toothy grin, holding his hat to his chest, the other hand up in an oath.

“Swear on my life.”

The guffaw you let out is probably unattractive, but he doesn’t seem to mind, watching you with those gorgeous eyes, taking another sip of his drink. You’re both on round three - just the right spot between sober and buzzed to make everything that much easier.

“You did _not_ walk that far without getting caught. There’s cops on every corner down that street, you wouldn’t have gotten five feet!”

Jesse chuckles, drawing a cross over his heart and you huff, relenting, lips curled over the rim of your glass as you polish it off. It’s only now that you glance away from him, noticing the sudden quietness around you. The restaurant is almost empty - only one or two patrons left lingering besides the two of you.

“We should probably get the bill.”

“Already taken care of sweetheart.”

You blink, taken aback.

“Sorry?”

He gives you an amused look, stretching his arms out over his head, casual, but there’s a glint in his eye.

“Took care of it when I went to the bathroom. Tonight’s on me.”

You make a face at the trick, though there’s something warm that blooms in your chest at the thought, and it’s what lends your voice the easy, playful tone.

“I _can_ pay for my own food y’know.”

He just smirks.

“Ya could just say thank you. Daddy didn’t teach ya any manners?”

“No Daddy to teach me,” you shoot back, just as quick, your own smirk reflecting his. Something stirs in his gaze and he pauses, looking contemplative, scratching through his beard.

“Could have one tonight if you asked nicely.”

You freeze, stunned, and he takes that as his cue to stand, putting his hat back on his head with a smug grin, a thumb hooking behind his belt as he slides out of his seat.

“What did you just say?”

He’s already walking towards the exit, only turning his head over his shoulder to call back to you - but you catch the storm that’s brewing in his eye and it makes you shiver.

“You heard me.”

You can’t follow him out fast enough.

 

* * *

 

“Fuck-”

Your body quakes for what feels like the hundredth time where you’re nestled in his lap - the one steady hand on your hip, the other pinching at your chest again - rolling the stiff peak of your nipple between finger and thumb while you clench around him. He’s got a cigarillo in his mouth, the ash crumbling each time he takes a breath, the end chewed between his teeth.

“You’re doin’ real good baby.” You can smell the smoke on his breath when he leans in, the heat caressing your neck as a single drop of sweat rolls down the dip of your spine. “Makin’ Daddy feel real nice.”

He’s been lording that over you since you’d all but crashed into him in your haste to catch up. But there’s something about the word that makes you shiver each time he uses it. Each time he makes you say it.

“ _Nh_ -“

Your mouth falls open as you sink back down, that thick girth providing a stretch that makes your chest heave; throbbing heat between your legs. The pleasure in your belly uncoils when he rocks up against you, stroking along your thigh, puffing steady breaths of smoke just past your lips.

“Easy…”

He lets go of your chest, reaching between where you’re joined, and your body jerks at the shock of pleasure, your bliss giving him a tighter fuck as you let your head hang, a sob into his shoulder, voice wrecked.

“You like that? Like it when I take care of ya?” The smoke is in his voice now, curling through you, filling your senses with nothing else but the low purr of his words into your ear.

His tongue sticks over the joint between your shoulder and your neck, and you can feel his beard scratch over the skin. Your fingers curl, vision blurry from damp lashes, thighs still trembling from the sudden, shaky orgasm brought on by clever hands.

“D-Daddy..”

It’s the first time you say it tonight without his prompting, and you swear you can feel his cock twitch. His thumbs press into your hips, his legs spreading, making you stretch open with them, splayed wide across his lap.

“That’s it sugar… I got ya.” Ashes flick over your shoulder, hot flecks drifting over your skin as you whine, the first, rough, buck of his hips jostling you tight against him, sending your head spinning. He holds you firm. The stomach of his muscles bunch under you each time he rocks up, the armchair groaning with every movement, an echo of the desperate sounds you make when his cock drags in and out. The cigarillo crackles, short, and sharp.

“Oh sweetheart…” A tug on your hair makes your head loll back enough for him to mouth up your jawline, groaning. There’s a faint pulsing between your thighs you’re too exhausted to acknowledge; not when his teeth are scraping over your throat with just enough pressure to feel good. “Daddy’s gonna take _real_ good care of ya.


	7. Day 7. Aphrodisiac | Soldier76 x AFAB Reader

Get in. Get rid of the problem. Get out. Standard fare for your line of work. Being a slayer isn’t the most luxurious choice of career, but it pays well enough to keep your belly full and your armour mended. The trick to it is not dying on the job - and that usually comes with experience. There’s a steep learning curve to climb, but beyond a certain point, most cases start to become like pest problems.

You’ve been at it long enough to deal with most things. A classic vampire is hardly trouble, even if it is a rogue. It’s not often that you find one that kills for sport without gorging on at least some of its victims, but the puncture wounds are what gives it away. It takes half a day to clear the townsfolk of any suspicion, but the mayor is at his wit’s end when you give him the news. He doubles his offer. You sigh.

“Are there any caverns nearby? Somewhere dark and cool. They need a place to nest during the day.”

He wrings his hands as he thinks, humming and hawing enough to make you start grinding your teeth.

“Our trapper might know a place.”

You make him pay you half the money up front just as a guarantee.

 

* * *

 

The trapper, at least, is more competent than the mayor. When you approach him with your questions, he’s in the midst of rubbing fat into the tanned hides to supple them, glancing up and nodding to show he’s listening.

“-just any place that might spring to mind. As long as it’s got cover from the sun and enough room, it’d be a good place to start.”

He finishes his work, moving the tacked hide into the shade and rinsing his hands in a water barrel before he returns to you, scratching at the stubble on his jaw.

“There’s a cave just out by the old mill. Town used to use it for storage but it was too damp. Rotted anything we put in there. I can take you, if you’ll wait for me to get my gun.”

You raise a brow.

“You have silver bullets?”

“No, but if we _do_ find a bloodsucker out there, I’d feel better if I could blow off its face.”

Fair enough. Another pair of eyes wouldn’t hurt your cause, and the man looked competent. With the sun at your backs, you set out.

 

* * *

 

“Here.”

Your brows raise in surprise as you come round the corner - what seemed like a wall of rock suddenly opening up into a cavern. The cliffside had a jut that curved around the front, hiding the entrance to the cave and giving the illusion of a flat surface until you approached from a different angle.

“Well hidden. I can see why a place like this would be good to store emergency supplies.”

He checked his ammunition.

“You’ll see why we stopped soon enough. In the summer it gets wet enough in there to rust the buckles clean off your clothes.”

The humidity hits you thick as you walk in - one minute breathing in the cold, musty air of the cave, the next coughing some with how choked it feels inside. There must be a body of water somewhere inside.

Even with how uncomfortable it is, you’re both silent as you walk forward - the oil lamps you’d brought illuminating the rough stone walls. It opens up some way in, the ceiling sloping up to a wide chamber, the humidity less oppressive. Rotten barrels and rusted equipment lay in scattered pockets round the space, relatively untouched. But there are more openings in the rock to consider - tunnels leading deeper into the hills.

“We’ll check one by one.” You pull a stick of chalk from your satchel - something you’d taken to carrying since the time you spent 3 days lost in a wendigo warren. “I’ll go first, you stay close to me.”

He nods, and you can see the tension in his jaw. You just hope his trigger finger isn’t too flighty.

You start with the one on the left - but it barely goes a few meters before it pulls up short - a dead end. You move on to the next.

The first three tunnels are all no good, the next one looping back around to the third, but the fourth looks promising. It splits several ways on your way in, and each time you keep to the leftmost route, making a mental note of every extra tunnel you pass. Behind you, your temporary partner keeps his gun close.

Something scuffles in the dark. You both freeze.

Nothing.

You breathe slow to keep your heart rate down, not wanting to alert or excite your quarry. When you turn to tell him to do the same, you find a lamp and a gun motionless on the floor.

“ _Shit_.”

Not a vampire. The silver crosses you’d both donned would have at least provoked a reaction from the creature otherwise. Whatever it is you’re hunting is fast, and quiet.

You spot the shadow it casts a second too late.

Sharp points sink into your shoulder, and before you can even blink, your lamp and gun fall from your hands.

 

* * *

 

God. It’s warm. So fucking warm. Your eyes open to flickering darkness - orange light bouncing off the stone and casting strange shadows on the cavern walls. Sweat is dripping off your brow, but you can’t bring yourself to wipe it - hands limp by your sides. At least your clothes are gone. You might have melted otherwise.

“Sorry. Guess I should have told you.” The voice makes you shiver, rough like boots over gravel, your toes curling. There are no footsteps you can hear, but the shadow over you grows. “I don’t like people snooping around my place.”

The trapper tucks his hands under your body, lifting, your head lolling back while you struggle to recall his name.

“ _Jack_ -” you finally gasp, and those icy blue eyes glance down, the man offering you a smile, fangs and all.

“Just gonna help you cool off.”

_God_ that sounds so good.

He barely makes a splash as he sinks into the natural pool, a pleased sound hissing from his throat. The skin on the sides of his face splits and peels, and you watch in mindless fascination as small scales overlap, framing the strong jaw. He lowers you in, and the cold shocks your limbs awake.

“Ah-!”

Your arms shoot up clinging to him, that oppressive heat not dissipating - just drawing in, clawing at your insides while you pant, waist deep in the pool, Jack thumbing over your hips.

“Better?” You shake your head. It’s not enough. It feels like you’re going to melt if something doesn’t happen and- Something bumps against your thigh. And then a second. Your pupils dilate as Jack’s arms wrap around you and your feet leave the floor. His cocks are engorged and flushed red, both nestled between your thighs, but rubbing against you in a way that makes the furnace inside you temper.

“ _Better_?” he repeats, licking at the shell of your ear with a tongue that forks down the middle. Your cunt clenches and _aches_ , slicking in the water as you offer him only a low, long, whine. The scales at the side of his face rub against your cheek in a rough scrape when he mouths over your shoulder, fangs catching soft on the fresh puncture wound.

‘ _Not a vampire_ ,’ you think, but the thought is lost when he presses up into you, slow and deliberate. It’s a sear of heat, the arousal flushing over your skin like a flashfire, intensifying - like all this while you’ve been waiting for just this. Pure, perfect pleasure. He stretches you open in a constant press, the hissing groan in your ear drowned out by the pathetic mewls you’re reduced to, clawing at him wherever you can reach.

“I knew it was a good idea not to kill you.” He’s perfectly calm as he bottoms out, the only hint of his own arousal the way his cock twitches each time your walls bear down on him, the flare of his nostrils like he’s picking up your scent. His tongue flicks out again, and he trails his fingers over your thighs, between them, thumbing over your clit as you cry out, then leaving you to beg for it as he tracks his way up and over your chest.

“Gotta be patient.” He squeezes your breast, bouncing you some on his hip, and you feel the heat of his second cock bumping against the swell of your ass at the same time that his first spears back into you, rubbing you in all the right ways while you can do nothing but shudder and moan. “You’ve still got one more to go.”


	8. Day 8. Blood/Gore | Junkrat x GN Reader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for gore, wound tampering.

It’s rare enough to come across a proper house in the Outback. Rarer still to find one that hasn’t yet been picked clean by other scavengers. You haven’t looked in the windows yet - but the powerbox is intact, which means no one’s stripped it for the copper, even though you can clearly make out the footprints coming and going. Two sets - or, one and a half, rather. One set bigger, deep marks in the dirt from heavy duty boots worn by a heavy duty man. The other one scrawny, small holes in place of a right foot.

Junkers, likely. Strange that they’d have a cache this far out from Junkertown - even stranger that they’d keep it well maintained like this. It’s practically an invitation for scavengers.

Still, you’re careful as you creep around the lot, circling, getting tighter and tighter with each round you make, scanning the dirt for anything suspect - traps or triggers, bombs waiting just under the surface. But you find nothing.

The sun beats down on your brow, sweat beading on your forehead and crawling down the side of your nose.

You check again.

 

* * *

 

The door has nothing rigged to it that you can figure out, but your heart still skips a beat when it creaks open. One breath. Two. There’s no sound of a hidden spring. You slip past it gingerly.

On the inside, it definitely looks like a junker home - there’s an odd mismatch of things scattered about the place like makeshift furnishings - one part of the living room oddly tidy, small teacups set down in a circle. The rest of it looks like something out of the omnic crisis; gears and grease and parts littering every available surface. It’s not pretty, but there’s an opportunity here that you can smell over the stale scent of oil and unwashed sweat.

 _If_ you can find their stash.

It’s the only reason you can think of for them to be so far out here.

 

* * *

 

 

There’s only one room left to check, and it’s not the one you’d hoped for. You’ve spent a good part of the last twenty minutes combing carefully through each and every square foot of the small shack, but outside a disturbingly large collection of stuffed animals, you’d found nothing even remotely of value.

Which is why you find yourself staring down into the black void that awaits you - a cellar of some sort enshrouded by dark. You have to squint just to see the damn steps, but after a quick test for any tripwires, you descend. You spent a good while checking this place, and you’ll be damned if you’re leaving empty handed.

Unfortunately, it takes a few seconds too long for your eyes to adjust to the dark.

As your foot lands on the bottom step you hear a click and then a snap, and it’s the _sound_ of it that resonates with you when you fall, screaming. The distinct crunch of bone going up against metal, the victor decidedly not your shin. You swear. You curse and cry and shout while you writhe, fingers prodding gingerly, trying to work out how to get your leg loose while your brain sabotages you with panic, flooding your body with adrenaline that makes your fingers shake.

“ _Fuck_!”

You suck in a breath, trembling from the effort of holding it in, trying to keep it together long enough to free yourself from the fucking metal monstrosity. You’re so tense you can hear your teeth click against your jaw.

 _Tick tick tick_.

Wait.

A bell goes off.

The detonation isn’t big - more of a small, controlled explosion - but it’s not the heat that gets you. Metal rips through your chest; small fragments that bury into your flesh and tear another scream from you, wetter this time. The ones that miss ping against objects in the dark - glass breaking where you can’t see.

Your vision blurs with tears, your fists clenching and unclenching by your sides, breath wet hisses between teeth gritting so hard you feel like your jaw might snap. When you try to move, pain shoots through your body, your clothes sticking to you. Everything hurts - a struggle just to breathe when each shaky gasp seems to shift the metal inside you.

_I’m going to die here._

The thought grips you with sudden clarity. You’re in the middle of fuck-all nowhere with no way to get out. Your leg caught and shattered. Your body losing blood.

_I’m going to die alone._

The sobbing doesn’t help, but maybe at least this way, you’ll bleed out faster.

 

* * *

 

“I told ya it’d work.” Sharp. The voice pierces through your skull about as bad as the shrapnel had. Something scuffles by close to you - the scrape of a boot on wood and a quick ‘ _thump, thump_ ’ to follow. “Didn’t I tell ya Hog? I told ya, didn’t I?”

There’s a long-suffering sigh, echoey and muted, like someone talking from behind their hands. Your eyes crack open, unfocused, a dull ache littering points in your skin. Beady eyes peer down at you, sickly yellow, and for a moment you’re certain you’re face to face with a demon. But then he grins, backs up into the light and what you thought was a head shrouded in flames is just wild hair lit up by the sun.

“Had a nice kip?”

He licks his teeth and you’re struck with the image of a hungry dingo; the irradiated ones in the far south, missing patches of fur and growing far too many teeth. You try to speak, but it just comes out as a wet rasp, the taste of metal filling your mouth, sending you into a fit of coughs that wracks your body with pain. He laughs, high and delirious.

“ _Iiiii_ wouldn’t do that if I were you.” He says it sing-song, bouncing up onto his toes, looming over where you lay. There’s soot and grease smeared over his face, and an odd smell. Almost sweet. “Took ol’ Hog long enough to get ya wrapped up, but you’re still fulla holes.”

You don’t need a demonstration, but he gives you one anyway, pressing down on the dirty bandages now wrapped across your chest - red blooming alongside the hot burn that feels like it’s searing you from the inside. Your scream comes out as a broken gargle, and he _giggles_ in response, easing off the wound. There’s a snort from your other side, but you’re too busy trying not to aggravate the pain to look, your fists clenched right. It’s only now that you realise they’re bound - unable even to find some comfort in your own touch.

“Make sure you clean up.”

That muffled voice again, then heavy footsteps, and your scrawny captor gets a look in his eye that makes your gut churn.

He springs up again when the door shuts, scrambling onto the edge of the worn mattress and jostling your mangled leg, and you grit your cry behind your teeth, the vein in your neck straining with the effort of holding back.

“ _Please_ …” you manage to rasp, at last, but he’s far too busy inspecting the bandages wrapped around you, picking at the edges with metal fingers. You hiss as he brushes against another wound, and his head shoots up, wild eyed and grinning.

“Y’make some pretty sounds dontcha?”

It’s strange - the steadiness of those hands when he peels back the sticky cloth, carefully unravelling the layers until he gets to bare skin. He stares at the small, pink wounds like he’s fascinated. Then, eyes on you, brushes a thumb over the biggest one.

Your jaw clenches and you nearly break your teeth with how hard you grit them, the rough, low shout grating up your throat filling your mouth with more metal, your hands jerking against their binds. That look in his eye clouds, and the manic grin curls into something more contemplative.

“I like it.”

He licks his teeth again. You watch the front of his shorts tent with a growing horror. It takes him just one movement to land himself in your lap - and you forget the pain in favour of thrashing, panic overriding self preservation. But with one leg useless and your hands struggling against the rough rope, you don’t have much in the way of leverage.

He might look lanky - but there’s dense muscle there that ripples when he curls over you, and he weighs enough to keep your hips from bucking him off. That cold seeping dread has your breath coming in short, shallow huffs, your eyes flicking about the room, instinct looking for a way out. He skims his hands up your sides. You close your eyes and wonder how long it’ll take for you to die.

“Gotta get the scrap out.” Your eyes shoot open. He’s grinning, a finger poised over one of the bloody holes in your skin. “Get ya fixed up.”

He presses his finger down and in, and for a moment your vision goes black. When you come to, you’re already screaming, the feeling in your hands lost to the way the rope cuts into your wrists as you pull - nothing compared to the excruciating pain of him scratching his way down to the shard of metal buried in your gut. When he finally pulls it out, blood pools over the surface of your belly, forming thin rivulets that run down and drip over your side.

“Got one.”

You’re lightheaded, face wet with tears, and teeth stained red from the screaming - but he just continues with that thin, reedy laughter, flicking the metal off to the side. His palms smear the blood across your belly and up over your chest, and he drinks in the sight of his work like a painter inspecting his life’s work. There’s a noise in his throat, and he leans forward - putting his weight on your injuries, the jut of his cock clear as your blood soaks through his clothes - and he swipes his bloody finger across your nose.

“Y’know mate…” The sound of his voice is growing muted as your brain struggles to process through the constant pendulum of agony. Your wounds throb when he rubs his hands over them, but you can’t even manage a whimper at this point. His breath is hot and sour over your face. “I really think red’s your colour.”


	9. Day 9. Lingerie | Roadhog x AFAB Reader

Sometimes he’s gone for hours. Sometimes days. Once he was gone for a year, and you found yourself scanning the news each day for a sign - some sign, any sign that he was still alive.

It’s hard not to miss his presence when it’s gone. He fills a room - with his breathing, his warmth, his partner’s incessant chattering too - all a part of the odd, staggered relationship you’ve both managed to drag out over the years. It’s almost impossible to sleep without his warmth underneath you. Without the large hand settled over your body. But you manage.

You have to.

He’s been through too much to live a settled life. Lost too much. There’s a gentle man behind the rough hands, but he’s locked in too many layers of blood and ash to just let go of what he is. But love is about acceptance, and you will dress as many wounds as you need to, and wash the stains from his things. Polish that swinging hook when he’s knocked out from the painkillers - keep his hogdrogen stock good and filled.

He thanks you without words. In the language of touches you’ve learned to speak; the tilting of his head, the way he lets you curl up in his lap or stretch across his belly like a cat, listening to the heavy breaths with the rise and fall of his chest. He doesn’t say much most times. But your name is always easy to find on his lips - and it never ceases to make yours smile.

On the months he can’t make it home, you find a parcel on your doorstep.

You’re not sure how he gets the money to you - but he does. And each time the collection of plush toys in the bedroom grows. If it’s strange that someone like him would enjoy such soft things then.. well, you suppose that might be why he likes you.

 

* * *

 

The single, loud, knock at the door is enough for you to know. You all but fling the book you were reading on the ground in your haste to get there. When the door swings open, he’s waiting, Rat chattering on about something or another behind him, but you have only eyes for the man filling up the doorway.

You go through the motions. He sits in his chair - the one you dust down every day whether or not he’s here. Rat bounces off the walls, takes apart your clock even after a warning growl, and you give them both the first proper meal they’ve had since they last left. You check the calendar when you go back for seconds. It’s been two months. Not the worst.

You both let Jamison run until his spring’s dead, leaving him passed out over the coffee table to retreat to the intimacy of your room.

He brings the faded duffel with him - your patch over the old rip still intact.

 

* * *

 

“Got a gift.”

You stare at him a moment. It’s the first time he’s spoken so fast on returning. Normally it takes a few days to get him used to your presence again - like he needs reminding that you’re not here to kill him.

He unzips the duffel, nudging past the stacks of bills and tinkling coins, producing a box that might have been fancy if it didn’t look like it had gone through hell. You take it from him gingerly, tugging at the ribbon until it unravels and lifting up the lid.

It’s lace, delicate and sheer. At first glance you already know he’s got your size wrong - but it doesn’t matter. Not here. Not to you. You lift it, and strangely enough, he turns away. You don’t know if he’s embarrassed or if he simply wants to keep the mystery.

You watch his back as you undress, knowing he hears your dress dropping to the floor by the slight hitch in his shoulders - the way he straightens like he’s listening harder.

It’s a size too big. Where the lace should cling to your curves it droops a little instead. But the material is fine and soft when you touch it, examining yourself in the small bedside mirror.

“Okay,” is all you have to say to get him to turn. There’s a deep intake of breath. Then he grunts, stepping forward into your space. One thick finger starts in your hair and down your cheek, then, slowly, traces over your breast. The chamois shifts where he touches, and you can see him shift; the telltale twitch of his left hand when he’s upset.

“Too big.”

You take his hand. Press the thick of his palm over your breast, feeling the warmth seep deep into your bones.

“It’s perfect.”

You let him lift you to the bed - and for a moment you imagine a wedding night, the quiet expectation after pomp and ceremony - the excitement of something new. He pauses with you still in his hands.

“Mask.”

Your breath catches in your throat. It’s long been a sore point. He’s removed it in the dark, before, just enough to be intimate, enough for you to see the vague shape of his face. But never like this - in the warm orange glow of the bedside lamp. Your hands shake when you reach for it.

“ _Mako_..”

It’s a breathless whisper that leaves your lips - and it’s the last proper word that you manage for the night. He kisses you like he wants to consume you, stealing the breath from your lungs as you tangle your limbs in the sheets. The warmth of his belly is a constant, comforting presence when he rocks into you- thick and almost _desperate_ , a fervour to the way he pins you, a contrast to the soft lips that touch your neck.

It’s later, when you both lay in the ebbing heat of sex, that you turn to him, reaching out to trace those stoic features with your fingers. Memorising them. He watches you, inscrutable, even without the mask on, then reaches out to shift the strap of the loose bra back onto your shoulder. You smile soft.

“Stay,” you say.

“Can’t,” he replies.

And you’ll manage, you think, as you rest a hand over your own belly, fingering the lace, a gift you’ll grow into in the coming months.

You have to.


	10. Day 10. Bonds (Telepathic/Empathic) | Zenyatta x GN Reader

It’s not wise to go wandering in the woods. Or, that’s what the old people say, and it’s always the same. one starts it first, the others agreeing with a ho or a hum, nodding their heads sagely, hands on their knobby knees, eyes clouded with age fixing you with a stare. _That_ stare. The one they reserve exclusively for people who don’t take every word they say as gospel.

At the very least they’re more of an annoyance than any real barrier. You’ll go into the woods as you please, and there’s nothing the crotchety old bastards can do about it.

None of their business besides. The woods have always been a peaceful place for you - and you’ve been wandering in them since you were a child. You know the hunter trails and the deer trails, and the trails no one else knows how to find. Every time you walk in you walk back out learning something new.

So it’s with a smile that you give Old Nelson a wave as you walk by his house, watching him shake his head when you stroll down the path that winds into the edge of the woods.

* * *

 

There’s a path you want to explore today that you’d stumbled upon a week before - completely by accident, tripping over a tangle of briars that shot you straight through a nasty thorn bush. You’d come out of it alright save a few thick scratches - but the real wonder was the faint trail that that laid hidden behind the thorns.

It’s overgrown, clearly abandoned for years, but still just visible enough for you to follow, fingers reaching out to brush against the bark of trees older than any of the others you’d seen before. This part of the forest is old - growing thick. You have to wade through a lot of the undergrowth in some parts just to get through.

As the sun continues to travel across the sky you start to reconsider coming down this way - your clothes are soaked with sweat, scratches littering your limbs where they caught on thorns. But there’s a story under the old bark you touch that makes your skin itch for just a little further - so you press on.

You’re rewarded when the trees start to thin, catching a glimpse of something half buried where the foliage opens up into a clearing.

It’s odd, the sudden, peaceful silence here. Like even the wind has stilled as you approach the flat rock jutting out of the earth. You brush some of the rotting leaves off the surface, revealing depictions carved into the stone - worn down to shallow cuts by time, but still enough for you to make out the small figures of people and trees, and a ring of eyes above them, rays like the sun emanating from the center.

An old shrine to some forgotten god. You feel almost as sorry for it as you are filled with wonder. Who built this? How old was it? It was clear no one’s been to this part of the woods in an age, but there’s a pull to know that grips you hard.

You continue to brush the old leaves off the surface, scratch at the moss until it peels away, pull the weeds out from the cracks. You don’t stop until it’s clean.

It’s still sunk into the dirt when you’re done, but at the very least it’s clean, and you’re free to inspect the faded figures wrapping the old shrine - or, at least, that’s what you think it is.

There’s another large eye carved into the flat of it - the lines set deeper.

“Who were you?”

Your fingers trace the image idly - only to snatch away at the feel of a sharp prick, blood dripping from your index as you draw it into your mouth, startled. You squint at the stone, kneeling by it until your eyes are level. There’s a thin shard sticking out of the surface - set just at the top of the eye and small enough for you to have missed it, an imperfection in the stone exposed by decades of erosion.

You suck on the small cut with a bit of a pout. Of all the ill luck.

The better part of the day is spent inspecting the shrine - and then the surrounding area, until the sun starts heading in the other direction. Something about the walk back feels easier, and you make good time, reaching the edge of the village before the last of the sun’s light disappears behind the horizon.

Your disheveled appearance is met with disapproval, but you can hardly bring yourself to care with how excited you are from your new find.

When you slip into bed for the night, your last thought is whether the old archives might have some clues as to what exactly it was you found.

* * *

 

_Hands grasping at your skin; writhing, pinching, scratching, ripping - pressing against your eyes until you scream, wet on your face and only the dark to greet you. The hands hold you still as you thrash. And then - light. An orb, floating in the dark. Your eyes are closed, bloody. But you can see it._

_“N̴͝o̴̔w̶͌ ̵͝ÿ̸o̸͝u̶͋ ̵̕s̸̈́ė̴e̷͊.̷͑”_

_The voice resonates in the dark. You feel compelled to move, drawn to the light. And yet something about it terrifies you._

_“D̦̂ö͖́ ̳́n̥͒o̅͜t̰͊ ̩̈́s͚̕h̳͌y̤̒ ̞̈́f̡̏r̟͑o̜͝m̳̓ ͓͊t̨̾h̫̅è̘ ̟̂Ḯ̡ř͕į́s̪͐.̫̍”_

_The orb swivels - and then you see it - the dark line running down the middle, stretching in the center into a dark pupil that focuses on you. The eye blinks, and you are filled with a sudden… peace._

_The green glow grows stronger, your chest suddenly filled with a writhing of warm and cold - like the hands are inside you now, fingers creeping up the length of your throat and out your mouth. But you are not afraid. This is right. Chaos is the natural order of the world. A higher state of being._

_The orb swivels close, and the hands crawling out from between your lips reach for it, dissolving in the light as it expands until it’s all you can see, searing your flesh as you succumb to it, your own arms wide, eyes hollow._

_“Ẁ̵̧̱̝̗͐͋͊a̸̪͕͉̗̐̆́̕k̴̜̯̰̮̑͂͘͘e̵̫̻̖̟̍́͂̊.̸̠̙̭̦̊͂̀̕.̴͚͚̯̳”_

* * *

You bolt upright with a scream - sweat dripping from your face, your hands flying to your eyes and mouth, feeling them, panting from the nightmare. It takes an hour before your fingers stop trembling, the blankets wrapped tight around your body despite the sweat; that primal part of you too terrified to move until the first light of dawn begins to creep in through the window.

It’s only when your heart rate is back under control that you crawl out from under the covers, shivering. Your legs are unsteady, but you manage to reach the kitchen, filling the kettle and setting it on the stove while you rest back against the counter for support. You can still feel the fingers curling in your throat.

L̴͎͊ì̵̙s̵̳̉t̴͈̓e̶̖̿n̷̫͒

Your gut churns, and your arms swing out to grab at the countertop, the icy grip of fear wringing your heart tight.

“What the _fuck_?”

The kettle starts whistling suddenly, the sound piercing through your small kitchen, thick black sludge spewing from the spout and dripping over the stove, making the fire hiss and dance. It spreads quick over the side of the counter, pooling on the floor and creeping towards you - but you don’t wait to see what happens when it touches you.

You scream as you run, heart thumping hard in your chest, as you all but claw open your front door, running out into the street.

The empty street.

“L̵̯͔͕͕̍̈̽̏î̷̡̡͖͖̄́̕s̸̨̜̫̿̄̇̾ͅt̷͙͉̺̗̀̕͝͝e̴̙̲͔͔̓̔̓̋n̷͖̹̟͍̋͐͂͝.”

You don’t wait for someone to come out to you, screaming bloody murder and slamming your fists on your neighbour’s door. But your hands come away covered in tar that tugs at your wrists, and it takes a frantic struggle to pull yourself free - and when you look up, there’s a face made of ink staring at you from the door.

L̸̢̧͖͇͖̜̜͈͚̼̞̲͇̒͊̏̉͑̽̀̈́͆͋̾͆̾i̵̡̛͓͙̣͍͈̮̱̟̣̖̘͌͌̔̏͋͆͒͛̈̒̑͜͝ś̷̨̗̼͙̠̲̗͈̲̱̻̪̆̄̈̎̊͗̉̈͂̀͌͜͝t̷̨̯̮͖̝̟̠̦͕̞̬̲̆̈́̂̾̇́͆͛͑̅̈̆̕͜e̵̻̯͔̗̜͙͈̜̙͉͈͕͔̽̃̉͐̇͂̿́̑̍͛̽͝ǹ̷̳̥̝͙͖̤̺͖̗̬̞̤̤̊̌͊͛͊͑̔͘͝͝͝͝

It’s loud now - multiple voices screaming at you in your head, dissonant and distorted, pounding through your skull even as you cover your ears and scream, eyes closing, bolting blind down the road, until the gravel under your toes turns to dirt and grass and leaves.

You don’t know how long you run - or how you keep from running into anything. But the voices fade with each step you take, so you don’t stop until the last of the whispers are gone.

It’s your knees that hit the ground first, your hands digging deep into the dirt as you choke and sob, shoulders quaking with each breath, still trying to process what’s happening.

And then there’s a voice - not in your mind, but in front of you.

“Do not despair.”

You lift your head.

The stranger meets your eyes, and all you see is green.

“You are one with the Iris now.”

There’s a hand under your chin, grasping it. The stranger still stands away from you - behind the altar now raised back out from under the ground.

“Ý̵̜͕͇̳̐̚͝o̸͚̼͙̘͌͛̍̕û̴͍̥̻̭̈́̕ ̵̱̰̩̺̈̈́̈́̕ẖ̴̩̬͙͆̈́͝ä̷̛̞̺̤͖́̊̕v̴̹̩̫͔̎͌̈́̒e̴͕̪͓̭͊̀̄̄ ̴̻̫͈̀̓͛̊ͅṡ̶͇͚̩̏̿̀ͅe̷̹̳̰͎͑͛͝͝t̷̺̻͍̍̀͑̽ͅ ̷͇̪͕̭̒̀͂̕u̴̢̺͓̔̆̐͂͜s̷̢͎̼̪̓̉̏̚ ̷̙̤̖͈̈͐͊̕f̸͚̮̹͂̐̓́͜r̵͚̮̬̱̉̐̓̊e̵͈̭͍̱͌̌̎̌e̵̻̹͉͊̋͗́ͅ.̴̹͚̳̘̐̎̃̌”

Screams. Thousands of them. They echo all around you, from up above, from under the ground.

You smile. Stand. Approach the altar, and as he raises his hands you lay across it, black ink surging up out of the earth to meet your body, to tear away your early trappings.

The Iris has accepted your offering; and you can feel them now - every soul that gave themselves to oblivion. They hands on your skin, inside you, their minds against yours. Green eyes stare down at you from above, and in the writhing mass of tendrils assaulting your body, you moan.

A hand caresses your forehead, and his voice echoes in your mind.

  
“Ę̷̰̞̖̬̾́͋̒͋̈́͜m̶͍̬̯̝̟̻̌̃̌͆̾͝b̸̨̡̟̮͉̣̈́́̔̏͘̚ŕ̵̦̣̜͇͈̦͑̏͊̎̔a̸̤̯̯̯̦͔͛̈́̉̇̀͘c̵̨̻̲̮͔͙̈͌̎̃͌̕e̵̢̼̻̜͇͒̀̅̀̋̕ͅ ̸̢̥̭͈͔̌̎̎͋̽͛ͅo̴̢̨͈͚͖̲͛̅̾͆́͝b̵̤̪̲͉̝̬̈́͑͛̎̐̋l̵͙͎̻̞̳̈́̆̈̅̀̍͜ḯ̶̼̖̞̦͇̹͊̊̐̎͝v̸͖͔̞̘͈̙͂̈̌͛̂͝i̵̧̭͔̫̳̠̋͛̀͋̈͂ṓ̸̧̡͚̲̪̳͊͋́͘n̶̡̼̠̺̺͓̍͒̏̈͊͠.̶̛͍͓̰͕̩̩̎̔̒̆́.̸̠̙̭̦̊͂̀̕.̸̭̣͔̬̑́͊̈”

 

It’s not wise to go wandering in the woods.


End file.
